


Riven Soul

by firesign10



Series: Soulbound [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Show Level Horror, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-07 06:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16849078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Hallucinations and nightmares torment Sam, lingering horrors from his time in the Cage. Dean works hard at caring for his brother, but he seeks out some way to help Sam escape his torment. Dean thinks he's found a way, but he must figure out how to make it happen. Then they have to learn to live with the consequences.





	Riven Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 SPN/J2 Reverse Bang. I was immediately captivated by [milly_gal](milly_gal.livejournal.com)'s incredible art prompt. Her work led me to write a story of the pain and love suffered by the Winchesters, and how their bond is the key to their strength. I've worked so many times with Milly, and it is always fun and challenging and enormously creative! Thank you, Milly!! Please visit her post to see all of the amazing pieces she created and tell her how wonderful she is!!!
> 
> I love this challenge, so it was a pleasure to participate in it this year. My thanks to all the [spnreversemods](spnreversemod.livejournal.com) for arranging and administering this great challenge. As always, deep appreciation and thanks to [theatregirl7299](theatregirl7299.livejournal.com) for all the brainstorming, wrinkle ironing, and beta read!
> 
> Link to Art [on LJ](https://milly-gal.livejournal.com/2041596.html)

Sam clutched the side of the bathroom mirrored cabinet, the chrome sides cold against his hot palms. His eyes stared wide and fixed at the reflection in the smooth glass.

A skull gazed back at him, smooth curve of bone sweeping down to dark, empty eye sockets, deep black pits startling in the whiteness. A toothy rictus grin mocked him; distraught, he thought the exposed jaws might start clacking any second now, a visceral horror-movie noise guaranteed to send shivers down one's spine.

_Fuck. What—how--_

Sam shut his eyes, lids dry and scratchy from staring so long. He shook his head vigorously, too-long hair flying side to side as he puffed out anxious breaths.

Open. Look.

This time Sam could see himself, but beneath his naturally tan skin, the skull bloomed again. His entire face was a horrible amalgam of flesh and bone, one eye showing his usual blue/brown/green coloration, the other merely an empty dark socket. Pointed nose overlying empty, delicate bone of the sinus cavity. Bitten lips bleeding into a sepulchral grin.

Skin slowly melted under his gaze, flesh liquefying and mixing with blood, then languidly oozing down one cheekbone, dripping off one side of his sharp jawline. His intact eye turned crimson and black, radiating an unwholesome glare that could only signify Lucifer was riding him again, manipulating him like a puppet. Sam's acidic gorge rose in his fear-constricted throat as he watched his face change and shift and--

“No!”

 

The mirror shattered into a spiderweb of cracks, the glass splintering and pieces falling in deceptively sweet tinkles. Sam sobbed, his need to breathe warring with the bands of tension constricting around his chest, and his fist came up unbidden to smash into the mirror again. A rain of reflective shards gave incontestable evidence that it was truly ruined. Sam pulled back his hand, cradling it to his chest, nursing his painful, bloody knuckles.

Shit. Dean was gonna see this for sure.

 

 

Dean heard a crash, and his heart fell.

_Sam._

He jumped up from his seat in the kitchen and bolted down the hallway to Sam's room. Too fearful to bother knocking, he burst in. “Sam!”

All Dean saw at first was the blood. Sam's blood, welling up and trickling fatly down his knuckles into little puddles onto his bathroom floor. Sam looked...bemused, like he didn't know where it was coming from or what had happened.

He probably didn't. Dean was acclimating to Sam's phasing in and out of awareness since his re-souling, but it hadn't gotten any less unsettling.

“Sammy! You okay? What happened?” He grabbed a hand-towel and wrapped it loosely around the bloody hand. Looking into Sam's confused eyes, Dean stroked Sam's hair, ran his knuckles down Sam's cheeks, trying to reorient him. “Sammy?”

“I, uh, I don't know. I looked in the mirror, and...” Sam's voice faltered. Dean knew that meant either he really didn't know, or that he was stalling for Dean's sake.

It didn't matter right now. There were wounds to attend to. Dean drew Sam over to the bed, settling him there before gathering up tweezers, antiseptic, gauze, tape.

“Sammy,” Dean breathed, carefully extracting bits of glass from Sam's hand. “Baby, what happened?” He didn't catch the pet name until after he'd said it, wincing at his faux pas.

“I don't know,” Sam mumbled. “Just...all of a sudden, I guess I lost it, you know?”

Dean winced as he removed another splinter. He didn't know for sure, but he had a good guess.

Keeping his eyes focused on Sam's hand, Dean kept working while he asked casually, “Was it something with Lucifer again?”

Lucifer had been riding Sam, his most perfect vessel, when Sam had wrested control back and jumped them both into the Cage. A few months topside equaled decades in the Cage, and even once Sam had returned, he hadn't been Sammy. His soul had been left behind, although now Death had retrieved it and stuffed it back into Sam. Unfortunately, it—and Sam—had suffered terribly at Lucifer's hands, and the damage was evident.

Sam nodded, clearly unable to even speak the name of his nemesis.

“Yeah, buddy. I got you.” Satisfied that all of the glass was gone, Dean liberally smeared antiseptic ointment over the cuts and wrapped the hand in gauze. “Better?”

“Yeah,” breathed Sam quietly. “Thanks.”

Dean gently took hold of Sam's chin. Bringing his face up so that they could look eye-to-eye. “Sam, will you...I mean, you'd tell me if there was a...a real problem, right?” He searched Sam's face, noticing how his eyes flinched away from meeting Dean's.

“Yeah, sure. Of course. I think, uh, I'm gonna lie down for a bit, okay?” Sam crawled the rest of the way onto his bed, pulling the blanket up and closing his eyes.

Dean let out a disappointed breath. “Yeah, Sam. Sure.”

 

 

Sam lay in his bed, the scratchy blanket rubbing his cheek. He kept his eyes closed until Dean left, hearing the door shut with a resolute click. A hot tear seeped out of Sam's eye, trickling down his cheek and tickling his nose. He swiped at it, gritting his teeth to prevent more, cursing himself for his weakness. Reaching up with his unbandaged hand, he wiped his face and drew a tremulous breath. Why couldn't he be strong like Dean? Or their father? John would never have let this happen, would never have let these ridiculous feelings run rampant and turn him into a shadow of his former self. What was wrong with Sam that he couldn't resist the hallucinations, rebuff the craziness that dogged his every step?

_Should I tell Dean how bad it really is? Do I keep on trying to hide what's happening to me?_ Sam grunted in indecisive fatigue. Nothing seemed to be a good choice. _Maybe he already thinks I'm just losing my mind._

He sighed heavily. His body ached with weariness. When he even could get to sleep, it was usually broken by horrible dreams that left him sleepless for the rest of the night. _Sleep...please, I just want to sleep. Without dreams, without nightmares. Just one night._

And surprisingly, sleep came, taking away the dilemma and the pain, giving Sam a brief surcease.

 

 

Dean sat in the kitchen, rolling a half-drunk beer between his hands. He couldn't kid himself any more about what was going on with Sam—things were clearly escalating. Sam's behavior was becoming more erratic every day. The danger wasn't just to those around him, but to himself, as he lost himself in dark visions and hallucinations. Dean needed to address the root issue, dig down to the heart of the problem and extract it, not just patch up the after-effects.

Just...what _was_ the root issue? And how was he going to fix it?

He knew it was wrapped up with Lucifer. The months (years...) of possession, the time in the Cage being torn between two psychotic archangels, the massive quantities of demon blood Sam had had to consume at the end in order to contain Lucifer--any one of those was enough to drive a man insane. There were leftover consequences lingering, casting a dark shadow over Sam, and it wasn't just your run-of-the-mill PTSD. It was deeper than that, black and intransigent, and if Dean didn't figure it out, it might keep encroaching on Sam until it swallowed him completely. He could end up losing his brother bit by bit, until Sam's only recourse was heavy sedation in a padded cell at a locked ward somewhere.

Or worse.

Dean couldn't stand for that. He _wouldn't_ stand for that. He just...fuck, he just didn't know what the hell to do.

Momentarily overwhelmed, Dean swiped his hand across the kitchen table and sent the beer crashing into the wall, where it disintegrated in a shower of foam and sparkling brown glass.

 

 

Dean had realized a while ago that, after his ordeal in the Cage, Sam needed a break from constant hunting. Deciding on Nebraska as a fairly conveniently located yet largely rural point, Dean found a farmhouse in the countryside available for a low rent. Isolated from busybody neighbors or nosy townsfolk, the farmhouse was rundown yet comfortable, more than adequate for their simple needs. Empty fields and a small belt of woods encircled the house, and there was a detached garage for Baby.

Only the rest and solitude of their locale and lifestyle didn't appear to be making a rat's ass of difference to Sam's health. He wasn't eating, instead losing weight off his already slim frame, his clothes hanging slack from bony shoulders and hips. He slept poorly, waking with nightmares more often than not. His skin was pale and dry, and dark shadows ringed underneath his dull eyes. Any sudden noise in the house or outside made him jump like a skittish horse.

And the effect that was possibly the most painful for Dean, Sam couldn't bear for Dean to touch him, unless it was to bandage a wound or maybe briefly stroke his hair once. Sam would lean in for a moment, visibly relaxing, and Dean would just start thinking this was it, the turning point, and then Sam's body would stiffen up and pull away, his sunken eyes begging for forgiveness as he withdrew.

And Dean's heart would break yet again.

Their physical relationship was probably more intense than that of ordinary brothers, due to the enforced intimacy in their life as hunting partners. They lived together, traveled together, shared almost everything. They'd stitched each other up, nursed each other through concussions, wounds, fevers, and broken hearts. They'd turned to each other for comfort and reassurance; barring a select few (Bobby, Ellen, or Jo for instance), the Winchesters were their own sole support system through the traumas and upheavals of their dangerous, nomadic life.

At one point, Dean thought he felt their bond shift, a stretching of their tie that might allow the merest possibility of something physical developing between them. Truth be told, Dean knew Sam was incredibly hot--just on a physical basis alone, he could totally have hit that. Factor in the solid emotional bond they'd shared all of their lives, and they could possibly be incendiary together. Yet without any actual discussion on the topic shared, they'd both drawn back, silently and mutually leaving that final taboo uncrossed, staying within the boundary of their relationship as they already knew it. It was enough to know how each slept in a cramped motel room bed, filled up half of the front seat in the Impala, handled their weapons in unspoken sync.

When Sam came back from the Cage, Dean quickly realized he was not the same Sam Dean had known all his life. A blunt lack of compassion, the blatant emotional emptiness, even the rather casual brutality of this stranger belied that Sam Winchester was the man he'd been before the jump. Dean refrained from touching this cold not-Sam in any way, although not-Sam had leered at him, gesturing obscenely and making it clear that he'd be happy to tap Dean's ass. That alone tipped Dean off to the nature of this person. Despite those deepest desires he'd never spoken of or acted on, Dean knew he could never yield that way to this calculating, callous being wearing a Sam-suit.

One night after Sam had been re-souled, Dean reached to hug him after a tough hunt, a hunt that Dean knew had been difficult for Sam. Dean wanted to give him some comfort, reassure him that they'd done what they could, and so he wrapped an arm around Sam, squeezing him and patting his shoulder.

Sam went rigid beneath Dean's touch, pebbled skin shivering over board-stiff muscles, breath coming short and fast. Startled at his reaction, Dean patted Sam's cheek to reassure him and was shocked to find his hand damp with Sam's tears.

Dean had avoided touching Sam since. All of his focus now was just keeping Sam going; getting some food into him, helping him to sleep, bandaging him up when he hurt himself.

It wasn't enough. Dean was losing, and he knew it. It was time to try something, anything, and pretty much nothing was too drastic for Dean to consider.

He was not going to lose his brother.

 

 

Sam lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The plain white paint mocked Sam with its serenity. Sometimes he saw images slithering across it, as if it were a canvas that his mind used to paint horrible scenes on. It might be flames, brilliant yellow and orange and red tongues of fire licking over bodies, blackening them, crisping their skin with red rivulets streaming out between the cracks until they evaporated in a hellish steam. It might be a succession of X-crosses and standing racks with people bound to the corners, hanging and vulnerable, while demons wielded cruel, biting whips on them, branded them with smoking irons, cut pieces of skin and limbs off to fling onto a pile of offal. Blood pooled beneath each rack, the screams escalating until Sam had to clap his hands over his ears, the smell of roasting meat in his nostrils, the demons' laughter tearing at his sanity in shrill, unearthly tones.

Sometimes it was just his own face that stared down at him from that white surface, familiar fox-tilted eyes over ever-sharper cheekbones, framed by messy, unkempt dark hair. Sam watched helplessly as his features melted and shifted, the horrid skull blooming again and again under Sam's skin. The black eye sockets turned to red, Sam's lips dripped off and revealed grinning teeth, one eye was empty while the other was demon-black, cruel and flat like the eye of a shark.

He threw his hands up, trying to block the terrible image, then covered his own eyes. Even beneath his hands, though, he could see it; his flesh peeling away to white bone, evil taking over his countenance. “No! No! No!” Screams tore his throat as he thrashed and flailed, trying to stop it, to get away--

Something caught his hands and he battled back, until he heard Dean yelling. “Stop! Sammy, stop! It's me, it's Dean, stop!” Sam dropped his hands, panting like he'd just finished a race, heart pounding underneath his t-shirt.

“Dean...oh, Dean...” Sweat soaked Sam's body, chilling him except for where Dean's hands were. They stroked his face, rubbed his chest, Dean's voice—softer now—still talking to Sam, reassuring him that he was safe.

He looked up at his brother, seeing the stark worry sharpening Dean's mouth, weighing heavily in his eyes. “Sammy, what are we gonna do?” Dean took Sam's hands and briefly kissed them. “Can't watch you go through this, it's gonna--” His words broke off and Sam could hear the rest of the unspoken sentence hanging in the air.

_\--it's gonna kill you._

 

 

Research and Dean Winchester didn't mix very well. He'd been spoiled by having the best researcher around available at his beck and call. There was nothing Sam Winchester couldn't ferret out, no text too arcane, no language too ancient. And backing him up was Bobby Singer, with a seemingly endless library and incredibly vast esoteric knowledge. Dean would much rather do, oh, just about anything instead of research, and with that pair on his team, he'd been able to skip it often. He'd been free to shoot and hunt and drink and fuck, and damn if he hadn't done just that.

But now it was Dean's turn. He knew he could call on Bobby, but this was Sam's problem, and that meant Dean was going to do his damnedest to solve this himself. Just because he preferred not doing research didn't mean that he didn't know how to do it. No son of John Winchester's was ignorant of that skill.

Dean scoured the internet, plumbed the dark web, contacted and consulted with anyone and everyone he could find that offered even a possibility of a lead. His studies were constantly interrupted by Sam's needs and nightmares, but for the moment there were no further injuries. Hunting was put off for the time being—Dean knew that was one more plate he couldn't spin right now.

Lying in bed one night, Dean was fatigued but unable to sleep, too many thoughts and worries floating through his mind for rest to happen. Random ideas and conversations, stirred up from the endless research he'd been doing, drifted through his semi-consciousness.

_Thank God it's been quiet tonight...I hope that means he's getting some sleep. He's gotten so thin, maybe tomorrow I can try getting some chili into him. He likes chili. I'll make Bobby's recipe. Something's gotta work with stopping these fucking hallucinations...there's got to be something I can try...I'm bound to find some new links tomorrow._ He sighed and shifted on his bed, thumping his pillow. _Maybe I should just call Bobby tomorrow. Damn, wish I could ask Ash. Ash was a smart cookie, he knew some shit. So wild to see him in Heaven, even there he was a genius, figuring out how to slip in and out of everyone's slice of heaven. Except me and Sammy, we had the same one--_

Dean sat upright, eyes wide in the darkness.

_Me and Sam had the same Heaven. Ash said that couldn't happen, except for..._

_Except for_ soulmates.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and jumped up, fumbling for his flannel over-shirt and rushing to the dining room. Sam's laptop sat on the table, and Dean quickly turned it on, tapping his fingers impatiently while it whirred to life.

The next couple of hours flew by as Dean typed and scribbled, typed and scribbled. First he read everything he could on soulmates and the bond between them. Then he explored various spells—what they involved, what could be accomplished. He took a break and fixed a pot of coffee. By his second cup, the sky was lightening, and he made himself wait one more hour before calling and waking Bobby up.

 

 

The mirror in his bathroom hadn't been replaced yet, the frame still half empty and what glass remained in a sunburst of shatters. Every time Sam looked at it, his fragmented reflection sent remembered horror skittering down his nerves. He tried covering it with a towel, but then he couldn't help imagining what was going on beneath the fabric, which was even worse. He felt that if he were to lift the corner, he'd see the ghastly skull reforming, made even more awful by the jagged splinters of glass as they refracted the light. Gritting his teeth, Sam yanked the shirt down and threw it into the corner of the bathroom. The mirror was empty.

He went into the living room, slumping into the big battered armchair with the soft, poochy cushions. He smelled coffee, usually a delicious scent, but today it made him a little nauseous.

“Hey, Sammy, here's some ginger ale.” Dean put a tall glass down next to Sam, filled with ice and a fizzy amber liquid. “I didn't think you were up to coffee, although if you'd like some, just holler.”

Sam picked up the glass and took a long sip, relishing the icy ginger bite and the carbonation. He looked gratefully at at Dean. “Thanks, this is perfect.”

Dean sat near him on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Sam...I may have found something to help you.”

Sam sat up straight, putting his glass down on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”

Dean took a deep breath. “I mean something that might stop your hallucinations and nightmares. Want to hear it?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Dean saw a faint eagerness suffuse Sam's face. Not hope—hope was too much for him to ask for at this time. But he was ready to listen to Dean, hear him out, and Dean hoped, hoped so damn hard, that this would work. And that Sam would agree to try it.

 

 

Rituals were a lot of work, Dean groused to himself. All those arcane, rare ingredients to assemble, eye of newt, toe of frog, yadda yadda yadda. Usually some special chalice or bowl was required, meaning hours spent sniping on eBay. Burning stuff (okay, that part was fun, who didn't like burning shit), and smearing gooey crap over one's body. Messy! Like, gross-messy, not fun-messy like chocolate syrup or whipped cream. Memorizing words or reading them off a paper, of course in some obscure language. Lucky if it was just Latin, more likely it was Ancient East Bolgovian or something. Doing everything in the right order. God forbid there's a mistake—no one wants to end up a toad! What a fucking pain.

This ritual was particularly tricky, since it was a mash-up of a few different things. Dean and Bobby had had some long conversations about how to build it. There were several intricate steps that had to be followed in a certain order.

Plus at some point, they would have to be naked. Total el buffo. Dean grimaced. Naked during sex = good. Naked during spells = bad, and usually chilly besides.

However...this was for Sammy. For his health, if not his very survival. Dean harbored no illusions about how serious the situation was. It was only going to be so much longer before Sam either wasted away or seriously injured himself—accidentally or not. Dean would do anything to save his brother.

It was just another ritual, he told himself, ignoring the cold ache in his chest.

He stepped back from the spare bedroom, now empty of anything not pertaining to the ritual. The floor was scrubbed, the corners anointed with various oils and unguents, and black cloth hung over the windows to block any light. Arcane symbols and wards were carefully drawn in various colors on the floor and walls. At several significant points of the compass, fat pillar candles in white, black, and red flickered, casting a lambent glow on the space. Small brass incense burners smoked gently at each of the four corners of the room, imbuing the air with a faint perfume of amber and sandalwood.

Dean laid a fire in the fireplace, being careful to use only blessed woods and scattered bits of cinnamon. On one side of the hearth, he placed the hammered silver bowl to use for burning herbs and other materials at the ready. The components themselves were all lined up in little paper bags and glass bowls. Dean thought wryly it rather looked like he was going on _Chopped._ A mason jar of sludgy stuff to paint sigils on themselves with sat close by. Dean didn't want to think what had gone into that little concoction—it had all been pretty nasty. All it needed was the addition of their blood to be activated. And finally, a chair stood near the door with a couple of towels on it for afterward.

This was it. The end run, the Hail Mary--pick whatever stupid sports analogy you wanted. Dean would have said the final countdown, but he didn't want that stupid song in his head.

Dean looked around one last time and went to get Sam.

 

 

Dean led Sam into the room. They were both stripped down to boxers, and Dean had had to hide his reaction at seeing how thin Sam had really gotten, now that the cloaking of over-shirts was removed. Skin clung to bone over his joints, and his ribs and clavicle were far too well-defined, although his remaining musculature was still evident.

_Jesus, Sammy. You're wasting away._

Dean helped Sam lie down on the floor, wishing he could put a blanket down to cushion him. “Sorry, buddy, we gotta be on top of the markings here, in contact with them,” he explained softly.

“I understand,” Sam murmured, lying quietly. “It's okay.” His eyes, dark in the uneven light of the candles, followed Dean as he slid Sam's boxers off and then his own.

“Don't go getting any ideas here,” Dean joked weakly, smiling at Sam's light chuckle.

“You ain't all that,” he retorted, and Dean felt a burst of relief at the show of spirit.

“Here we go. You just lie there and I'll let you know if you have to do something, okay? I'm going to drive.” Sam nodded. Stroking his hair, Dean removed his own boxers and lay down beside his brother, their shoulders and legs touching.

Dean closed his hand over Sam's and took a deep breath before speaking in Aramaic.

_I invoke The Powers That Be to witness our union._  
I call on Father Sun and Mother Moon to bathe us in their joined light  
and make us one.  
Let the very stars set in the sphere of the sky note our joining--  
soul to soul, mind to mind, heart to heart,  
and revolve around our sacred axis. 

He felt a tingle inside his belly, a small blossoming of power. Sitting up, he reached for the first little bags, drawing out a pinch of each item and casting them into the fire. The flames surged up red and orange, hissing in the quiet air. Subtle scents permeated the air, rich and pungent with notes of clove and peat among others.

“In fire, we are consumed and reborn, fuel remade into form. As the phoenix rises from its ashes, so we rise together, a new creature born of heat and light, no longer two but one.”

Sam shivered, but when Dean checked him, his skin was warm. He gave Sam's shoulder a little pat.

“Okay, Sammy, we have to get a little blood now, all right?” Sam nodded, eyes half-closed. Dean picked up a silver athame and the jar of sludge. He poured some of the sludge into an small jade bowl, then drew the athame's blade across his palm, holding it over the bowl. Rich red drops of blood dripped into the bowl, pooling on top of the heavier sludge. “Your turn, bucko.” Dean took Sam's limp hand and did the same on it.

Ignoring the blood still slowly trickling down his hand, Dean mixed both blood and sludge together using the blade of the athame. He scooped up some of the now dark-red mixture with two fingers and began painting symbols on Sam's body, then his own.

_Blood of my blood._  
_My blood is yours._  
_Yours flows in me._  
_So are we bound._

Dean picked up another bowl, carved from some dark rock, that had a thick, white substance in it. This had been difficult to get from Sam, but he'd managed. Dean looked at it somewhat distastefully—this was the messy kind of bodily fluid magic he disliked.

Tipping a little of the dark sludge into this bowl, Dean again mixed it up. The white darkened, the sludge lightened as they blended together. Grimacing, Dean again stuck a finger into the sticky mixture and resumed painting on his brother's body.

_Seed of my seed._  
_My seed is yours._  
_Yours burns in me._  
_So are we bound._

The semen gave the mixture a viscosity that Dean wasn't wild about, despite his familiarity with it. He wiped his finger on his thigh when he was done.

Next was a bandana. Ordinary enough, sure, but this bandanna had soaked up tears from both men. Dean had resorted to using an onion to produce the quantity of tears needed, but he figured it wasn't how he got the tears that mattered, but the tears themselves. He stuck the athame blade into the sludge and wiped it on the bandanna, mushing the thick smear up in the fabric. Throwing it onto the fire, Dean continued chanting as the flames licked at the bandanna:

_Tears of my tears._  
_My tears are yours._  
_Yours wash me clean._  
_So are we bound._

Dean eased Sam to sit upright, legs crossed. Facing each other, they put their bleeding palms against the others' chest, directly over their heart.

_Rhythm of my heart._  
_My heart beats with yours._  
_Yours pulses with mine._  
_So are we bound._

Dean helped Sam lay back down, tying a bandage around his hand. He looked around and found his next items, a crystal bowl filled with holy water and two small octagonal mirrors. He placed one on Sam's forehead and lay down next to him, arranging himself so that the top of his head rested against the side of Sam's head, just above his ear. Putting the other mirror on his own forehead, Dean poured some of the water from the crystal bowl onto Sam's mirror and then his own. The water trickled over their faces, cool and fresh in the warm room.

Dean chanted in Latin:  
_Your face is my mirror._  
_Your eyes are my mirror._  
_Your heart is my mirror._  
_Your soul is my mirror._  
_We mirror each other._

_My face is your mirror._  
_My eyes are your mirror._  
_My heart is your mirror._  
_My soul is your mirror._  
_We mirror each other._

__

_We gaze at each other._  
_We gaze into each other._  
_We mirror each other._  
_We reflect each other._

_Pure as water, clear as love._  
_Reflection, refraction, revelation._

_So we are bound._

The room was redolent with spicy scents from herbs that had been burned, a haze of smoke and magic clouding the air. Dean felt dizzy, almost intoxicated, and saw while Sam's eyes were shut, his skin was flushed and his pulse was rapid, hummingbird beat beneath his skin. Every movement of Dean's hands left iridescent trails in the air. Sam's head and shoulder were warm against Dean, and he turned his head to sniff at his brother, savoring the musky scent of his hair and skin, closing his eyes to breath it in deeply.

Dean's cock stirred, less from desire and more from the intoxication of the spell and the pull he felt from his brother. Sam's dick moved too, seeking...seeking Dean? A rush of love and exhilaration filled Dean; he wanted to shout, to dance, to fuck, to celebrate. Sam's eyes opened, hazel depths endlessly deep, and his lips parted. “Dean”, he whispered. “Want...”

Dean knew what he wanted. He bent down and kissed Sam, reverently yet passionately. There was nothing he wanted more that to taste Sam's lips, claim his mouth, wrap his tongue around Sam's. He wanted more, but he knew this was not the time. Enough to show his intent, state his feelings—Sam was his, and would be in every way possible.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered back. That single word contained it all—his love, his need, his worship of Sam.

“Yeah,” murmured Sam. “Me too.” He was too weak to do much more than accept Dean's kiss, open his mouth and receive it like the offering it was, but Dean knew it was heartfelt.

He _knew_ it. There was no guessing.

They were soulbound.

They slept.

 

 

They were naked on the floor, bodies still daubed with dark, wet sigils, when Dean felt awareness seep back into his skull. He was half on top of Sam, one arm across Sam's chest, one leg sprawled over Sam's thigh. Lifting his head, Dean looked over Sam's face with concern, hoping...

Sam's eyelids fluttered, his hands loosely scrabbling at the floor. His hazel eyes looked anxiously around the room before centering on Dean, widening at the sight of his brother. Dean pulled himself back, going back on his knees, one hand still on Sam's knee.

“How do you feel?” Dean asked softly. Noise seemed...so intrusive right now.

“Uh, okay? Kinda like someone used my brain for a pinata.” Sam pushed himself into a sitting position. “Dean, why are we naked?”

“You don't remember? It was part of the ritual. We had to anoint ourselves, paint sigils, stuff like that.” Dean grabbed the towels waiting on the chair, handing one to Sam and wrapping one around his waist. He skipped over the whole part about how they 'opened their hearts' to each other. Or how Dean hadn't realized Sam was a manscaper.

Sam stood up shakily. Dean grabbed his arm, steadying him. Sam scoffed gently at himself. “Wow, feel like I had a five-day fever. Legs are wobbly.”

Tears pricked Dean's eyes. “Pretty much you did, dude. You haven't been sleeping or eating. I'm not surprised you feel like a new-born lamb.” They shuffled out of the room together, clutching their towels and hanging on to each other. “We probably look like old men in a sauna, like in the movies.” Sam laughed out loud, and Dean couldn't help feeling a surge of hope. He hadn't heard Sam laugh like that in a long time.

They went into the bathroom together. Sam was still a bit wobbly, and Dean wanted to keep an eye on him as he showered. Frankly, Dean was feeling pretty drained himself, so he sat on the toilet lid as Sam started the water and stepped in. Even with the weigh he'd lost, Sam looked beautiful; long limbs, tan skin, musculature less bulky but still well-cut. Firm ass that was surprisingly perky, normally hidden in baggy jeans. Dark chest hair fanned across his pecs and narrowed to a dark trail to his groin. And there, well, Jesus, Dean hadn't often stopped to appreciate his brother's package, but goddamn, it was exceptional. Even soft, it was large and thick, balls swinging heavily behind it.

Dean's dick perked up a little during this evaluation, and Dean made sure he had a corner of his towel pulled over his lap. Sam left the curtain half-open, and Dean continued to have a great view of his naked brother. It was even better, because now Sam was wet, with water running down his chest and back, little droplets that Dean thought seriously about licking off. Droplets caught in Sam's dark pubes, sparkling like tiny gems.

Sam began soaping up, lathering his hair, soaping his face, running his foamy hands over his body. Now there were soap bubbles and foam all over him, white blotches that made Dean think about how good his come would look there, spurting thickly over Sam's belly and pecs. Sam ran his hands over his cock and between his legs, and Dean's dick snapped to total attention, poking angrily from his towel.

_Jesus fuck, what is the matter with me? I never thought a ritual would get me hot like this,_ he thought, wrestling with his stubborn erection. _Magic, the new Viagra._

A moan from the shower stall drew Dean's attention back. Sam's head was tipped back, and his hands were less about washing and more about oh baby, oh baby. They trailed over his body, sliding through the soap and water; as Dean stared hungrily, they pinched at Sam's nipples and slid down between his legs, squeezing his balls and gripping his cock. Stroking back and forth, Sam's long fingers caressed his dick, and it swelled and hardened under Dean's gaze.

“Fuck, Sammy,” he cursed softly. “What're you doing, dude? Ya killing me...” Raising his voice, Dean asked, “You need some alone time there?” It was actually good news in terms of Sam's health—Dean was pretty sure masturbating had been beyond of Sam during his malaise. Now...well, damn, both Sam and his cock looked to be in fine fettle.

Sam didn't answer, so Dean said, “Okay, buddy, I'll just uh...I'll be in the other room.” Dean's own dick was already clamoring to join in, hard and straining, pre-come already beading at his slit. Maybe he could pop off a quick one while Sam did his thing.

Dean's dick led the way into his bedroom. He spread his towel on the bed to protect it from the painted marks on him. It felt so good to lie down, and it felt even better to grip his cock, squeeze it gently and stroke it, sending little ripples of pleasure throughout his body. His other hand drifted up to his chest and brushed over his nipples. He gasped at the sparks that set off—his nubs felt crazy-sensitive, immediately hardening under his fingertips. He teased them again and again, his breath coming in short puffs, torturous tingles running down into his balls, already feeling heavy from his straining dick.

He heard a sound and had to tear his hands away from himself. Sam! Rolling off the bed, Dean moved to the bathroom as fast as he could, his bobbing erection slowing him down.

“Sam! Are you okay?” Dean stumbled through the door. “Sammy!” He tore the shower curtain aside.

Leaning against the tiles, Sam was braced on splayed legs, one hand hanging onto a towel bar, the other cradling his softening cock. A deep pink flush covered his chest, and his eyes were only half-open, heavy-lidded and dazed. Even with the water flowing, Dean could see the remnants of the white puddle at Sam's feet swirling around. It appeared that rather than a sound of distress, Dean had heard the cry of a robust climax.

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened them again and said, “Dude, I am so sorry.” He closed the curtain, but before he could leave, Sam opened it again and shut the water off.

“No, Dean, don't go.” Sam stepped out shakily, taking the hand Dean offered. “I'm sorry, I just—it just felt like my body was electric, all this heat and currents zooming through me. You think it's from the ritual?”

While Sam was talking, Dean was briskly toweling him off. It didn't seem unnatural to dry off his brother's naked body; this was a body Dean had spent his life taking care of. What was different was the detail Dean noticed as he toweled. He'd always known Sam's skin was browner than Dean's own, smooth and even. Now he observed the dark hair on Sam's legs, the scruff on his chest. How Sam's nipples were brown unlike Dean's pink, and his cock and balls an almost purplish brown, whereas Dean's was darker pink and red.

“Dean?” Sam's pause and questioning tone made Dean look up from staring at Sam's dick. “Dean, are you okay? Want to shower now?”

Dean was suddenly acutely aware of his own erection again, happily hidden under his towel. He wondered if Sam noticed Dean's fixation on his body, specifically his genitals. He finished running the towel over Sam's torso and arms very fast and stood up, keeping the towel carefully bunched at his groin.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Kinda spacey, you know?” Sam nodded at Dean's reply. “I'll just hop in now, yeah, wash all this stuff offa me...” Dean's voice trailed away as he turned and began running water. Throwing the towel aside, Dean practically leaped into the shower, putting his back to Sam.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam.” Dean soaped his upper body, having to bite his lip so he wouldn't moan with pleasure. Every bit of skin he touched felt ridiculously wonderful, like he'd never touched himself before. He didn't dare go near his cock until Sam left the room.

“Have a good shower.”

Dean heard the door shut behind Sam. Sighing with relief, he soaped his ass and then gingerly touched his cock. Fucking bliss—the slick soap, hot water, and his already rigid state combined to create pure hedonistic pleasure. He squeezed himself, then slowly stroked while his other hand roved around his body. Plucking and twisting his nipples, cupping and rolling his balls, sliding behind him over his ass to tease at his hole; everything felt so exquisite, every nerve giving such intense delight until he thought his brain would turn to jelly.

His orgasm ignited deep in his groin, sparking in intensity until it radiated outward, filling his dick until it could no longer be contained. Dean's eyes fluttered shut and his mouth fell open as his cock sprayed come into the water, ass clenching and hips canting under the involuntary force of his ejaculation. It shook him like a storm, leaving him limp and empty when it passed. Sagging against the wall, Dean drew a deep, shaky breath in.

Okay then.

 

 

When Sam stirred into consciousness, his first thought was how warm he was. It seemed like he'd been chilly for months, his body unable to maintain a steady temperature. Now he felt...toasty, just this side of hot. Five more degrees and he'd break into a slight sweat. It was delicious.

He went to move and froze. Something was pinning him down—some kind of heavy weight lay across his back and legs. Sam's chest tightened in reflexive fear. Who was holding him down? Why was he being held? And most critically...what was going to happen to him next?

He gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyelids tightly shut in an attempt to stave off panic. A paroxysm of trembling shook him; he gasped in an effort to suck in some air and refrain from blacking out. His eyes prickled behind his lids, hot tears sneaking out to trickle down his cheeks.

_Just do it,_ he thought despairingly. _Do it and get it over with. What's it gonna be? Skin me? Crucify me? Carve me up, and then rape me with my own blood? Do it already!_

A sob escaped his grimacing lips as his fingers clawed the sheets. The weight lifted off his body, and Sam tried to curl in on himself in an effort to protect himself from as-yet-unseen threat. _Here it comes..._

“Sam?” The voice was soft and familiar. Sam shook his head, eyes still obstinately closed. He hated it when they made it seem like they were Dean. He'd rather face any kind of ugly beast than a demon in the guise of his brother.

“Sam? Sam!” Dean's voice was louder now, and a hand gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Sammy. I think you're having a bad dream.”

Sam stilled and cocked his head. He'd never heard a demon say that before. Cautiously he opened his eyes, raising his lids carefully and looking around as best he could. No one else was there—it was just Dean and him, lying in the bed with sheets rumpled around them.

“Dean?”

Sleepy green eyes blinked at him. “Yeah.” Dean's voice was gruff still, thick with sleep.

Relief flowed through Sam. Dean. It was Dean. The _real_ Dean at that.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Dean grumbled for a moment as he resettled himself. Sam relaxed too, closing his eyes and exhaling. Dean's arm, across his back. Dean's leg, slung over his thigh.

Just Dean.

Reassured, Sam slipped back into sleep.

When he woke again, his body was unfettered. Raising his head from the pillow, Sam blinked and looked around hazily. He couldn't see Dean anywhere, but as his senses came online, he could smell food cooking and coffee brewing.

And it all smelled good. No nausea. No hunger warring with sickness, his body both needing and rejecting sustenance. It just smelled...good.

Sam threw back the sheet and sat up. No pain descended on him, clouding his head or roiling his insides. Just the pure feeling of desiring food.

Wow. He wasn't sure what had happened, but so far, so good.

Sam found a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on before heading downstairs to the kitchen. Dean was in boxers and a t-shirt, manning the stove where bacon was frying and pancakes were being piled on a plate. The counter already boasted a bottle of syrup, a tub of butter, two glasses of orange juice, and two big ceramic mugs of coffee.

“Pull up a stool, Sammy. We're about all set here,” said Dean, flipping a last pancake onto the plate and placing it on the counter. He turned back to the bacon, using tongs to fish it out of the pan and lay it on some paper towels to drain.

Sam sat on a stool, grabbing an empty plate and placing it in front of himself. He forked over half a dozen pancakes and drizzled syrup over them, then helped himself to the bacon. The juice was cold and refreshing in his mouth, chased by the warmth of the rich coffee.

“Good,” he mumbled, stuffing pancake in his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time food had tasted so good. He bit a piece of bacon, and almost moaned at the crisp, savory taste.

Dean chuckled. “There's plenty. Glad you like it.”

They were silent for a bit, eating steadily through the food. Sam finally pushed his plate away, belly replete. He wiped his mouth and sighed contentedly. “Thanks.”

Dean nodded, finishing up one last pancake. “Welcome. Figured we earned a good feed.” He took the plates and put them in the sink, running water over them to soak. “Let's get more coffee and we can go sit and talk.”

Sam felt a twinge of nerves. Clearly something major had happened, and he was pretty fuzzy about it. It was better to know, though, so he obediently filled his coffee mug and trailed after Dean into the living room.

He settled into a chair, watching as Dean ensconced himself on the couch. Nothing to do but dive in, Sam figured. “Okay, so something's happened. I don't know what, but I do know I haven't slept this good or been able to eat this well in a long time. So 'fess up—what did you do, and what's going to happen?”

Dean's face grew serious, and Sam felt a small chill in his bones. It had to be something big if Dean was so somber about it, and that made Sam a little nervous. He wrapped his hands around his warm coffee mug, sipping it and waiting for Dean to speak.

“Yeah, I did something all right, and I hope you aren't mad or anything. I had nothing to go on, so I did what I felt was right, and if you're mad, I'll take it.” He looked at Sam, and the pleading was clear in his eyes. “Sammy, I had to do something. I didn't—I wasn't going to lose you. I had to do what I thought would help.”

Sam nodded. The force of his brother's love was palpable. “I got it, Dean. I understand. Go on.”

Dean sighed and drank some coffee before starting his story. He talked about watching Sam slip away bit by bit, physically and mentally, becoming more and more of a ghost everyday. How the revelation of Ash's heaven hit Dean, and how that led him to consider their status as soulmates, and finally the choice he made after that.

Sam stared at Dean.

“Do you mean--” Sam wasn't sure he could actually say it. Was this really a thing?

“Yes. I tied our souls together. I didn't want to lose you, so I smashed them together and wrapped a bunch of cosmic duct tape around them. I had to help you.” Dean's voice quavered at first, but firmed up as he spoke, his eyes fixing on Sam. “Our souls are now bound together.”

Sam's mind reeled at that thought. Bound together? What did that mean?

“Uh, so...” he said eloquently.

Dean chuckled. “Wow, Sammy, not often that the cat's got your tongue.”

Sam had to laugh. It helped clear his mind a little. “Dean, what does that even mean? How did you do it? Do you have any idea what the consequences of this are?”

Dean sobered. “Well, the whole idea came from that we're actually already soulmates. That was why we could share a Heaven, remember? So we already fit together like puzzle pieces.”

Sam nodded. He remembered hearing that from both Ash and Joshua.

Dean continued. “So, binding our souls together—basically it's fitting those puzzle pieces together and then binding them—like, taping them together so they're reinforced and don't fall apart anymore.”

“Like a splint,” interjected Sam.

Dean nodded with an air of relief at Sam's understanding. “Yes, like a splint. So I put together parts of other rituals and came up with some bits of my own, and...tied us together.” His eyes roved over Sam's face. “I didn't want you to suffer anymore. To be so...tortured. I figured, I have enough to help carry both of us, right? So, there we are. Or rather, here we are.”

“Okay,” said Sam, looking into his coffee mug, as if the brown swirls in it could help him with this. “What about you—are you okay?”

Dean snorted. “I'm fine. Nothing going on here. No hallucinations, no visions, no nightmares.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he studied Sam. “How about you?”

Sam considered for a moment. “Well, I have to say, today has been the best day in a long time so far. I don't remember any nightmares, and I was hungry. Food and coffee were good instead of making me feel sick. No hallucinations, at least not so far.”

Dean sat back. “That's pretty encouraging.”

Sam nodded. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see how it plays out.” He smiled at his brother. “But Dean—I'm not mad. You did an amazing, incredible thing for me. Thank you.”

Dean smiled back at him, and they sat comfortably with their coffee, watching the clouds skitter outside.

 

 

The day passed without any issues, and Dean decided to make that chili for dinner; start putting some weight back onto Sam. He busied himself browning the meat, assembling the various beans and tomato sauce cans while the meat cooked. Putting everything together in a big dutch oven, he left it to simmer while he grabbed a couple of beers for him and Sam. Not seeing Sam in the living room or bedroom, he poked his head outside and found his brother sitting on the steps of the porch.

Dean handed Sam a beer and sat down. “How are you doing?”

Sam nodded and took a deep pull on the beer. “I'm good. Better than in a long time. I was able to just sit and relax, which, damn—I've spent hours and days trying to fight off the flashbacks and the hallucinations. I was able to sit here and watch the birds and the wind. It's amazing.”

Dean felt his throat choke up with the intensity of realizing Sam's suffering by the appreciation of its absence. “I'm glad.”

Sam turned to him, the blue and gold of twilight caught in his eyes as they met Dean's. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean sat as if bespelled, staring into the pure beauty of Sam's eyes, the simple joy on his face. Before he knew it, he lowered his face and kissed Sam, pressing his own lips firmly against those of his brother. He could taste the beer on Sam's mouth overlaying the sweetness that was just Sam.

It wasn't a kiss driven by lust or passion, nor was it completely chaste. It was suspended; Dean felt like he lived his whole life in the scant moments where their lips pressed together. When they separated, Sam's face held a beatific look, a mixture of repose and peace and joy that made Dean's heart swell and his throat constrict.

“Yeah, uh, gotta go finish dinner.” He stood up, feeling unaccustomedly awkward, and made his way back to the kitchen, colliding with the door-frame on the way. Sam's snicker lingered in the air behind Dean, and he couldn't help smiling at his brother's amusement.

The chili rocked, and so did the rest of the six-pack they washed it down with. They returned to the porch to finish their last beer, sitting on the steps and leaning back with their elbows on the porch floor, legs extended to ease their full tummies. Dean thought he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good, full of delicious food and relaxing like this. Long time, that's for sure.

The best part was being able to turn his head and see Sam sitting there just as relaxed, breeze playing with the strands of hair around his face. A calm face: no stress, no struggle, no tight jumping jaw muscles, no haunted look to his eyes. Just...Sam.

“There's a little something going on, making me wonder if it might be a side effect of the ritual,” Sam said contemplatively. “You know, like we talked about how we're not quite sure what to expect, so we're keeping our eyes open?”

Dean studied him, eyes following the noble high arch of Sam's forehead that cut down into the sharp outline of his nose. Shaking himself mentally, he noted that there was still no distress to be seen, so whatever Sam was observing wasn't upsetting him.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean drained the last of his beer, forcing himself to be calm. “What's that?”

Sam likewise drained his bottle before gravely studying the label. “There's been some kissing. Not a lot. I seem to recall one at the end of the ritual, and okay, big ritual, emotions running high. But earlier today—there was another kiss, and in a definitely unbrotherly way.” He turned to face Dean. “I'm not saying I mind it. In fact, I don't mind it in the least. I'm just...observing it.”

A rush of warmth made it's way from Dean's cheeks down his torso. “I'm, ah, I'm aware.” He coughed. “In the interest of full disclosure, I have to confess I kinda peeped on your little shower celebration yesterday. I've never done that before, but something...I dunno, it was just...fuck, Sam, it was beautiful. _You_ were beautiful.”

Sam chuckled. “I kinda thought I saw you peeking around the shower curtain. And I didn't mind that you saw me. In fact...” Sam picked up Dean's hand. “I'd like you to do more than just watch me.”

Dean caught his breath. Sam practically glowed, the soft yellow evening light casting interesting shadows over his body and face. It slid down his cheekbones, played among his knuckles, and reflected in his eyes, bringing the gold out from the blue and brown mixed in there. “Sam, you feeling okay, because it's just been--”

“Dean, I feel fine. I feel...amazing.” Sam stood up, reaching for Dean's hand and tugging him upright as well. “I think we should go inside and talk about this new aspect of our relationship a little more. Maybe...do some experimenting.”

He led Dean into the house, hands loosely linked. Dean watched the play of old denim over the swell of Sam's ass and cursed at how fast his dick snapped to attention, filling the baggy crotch of his jeans. They went upstairs, aged treads squeaking quietly and the worn railing smooth under their hands. It was darker inside, the golden evening sunlight muted into a grayer light.

Dean had no illusions about what was going to happen. He knew with full certainty that he and Sam were going to make love in some way. A week ago, he would have found it impossible to consider. Have sex with his brother? He'd have punched out anyone who suggested it.

The soul-binding had put all that aside. He and Sam had moved into a different place, a plane where they were not separate people anymore. The melding of their souls could only lead to the joining of their bodies as well. Dean didn't even have to puzzle it out--it just flowed into place in his head. It all made sense.

Sam stopped at the top of the stairs. “Whose room?” he asked almost shyly, dark lashes fanning his cheeks while he studied the faded carpet. “Mine or yours?”

Dean looked left, down the short hallway with two doors opposite each other. He'd chosen those bedrooms so he'd be just across the hall from Sam when Sam needed him.

To the right, there was a large bathroom on one side and another bedroom across from it. It was made up in case Bobby stopped by, but otherwise stood empty.

Dean took the lead now, drawing Sam over to the unused bedroom. “Neither,” he murmured, kissing Sam softly. “Ours.”

He opened the door.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork for Riven Soul by Firesign10](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211329) by [millygal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal)




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